In the living area, the darkness feels denser. But I don’t switch on the lights. Instead, I move straight to the glass doors, my fingers fumbling at the lock. When I open the door, the night air rushes in, like a gasp.
I step outside. The cold air is sharp and bracing, waking every nerve in my body. I can smell damp earth and the faint waft of rotting leaves.
I stand completely still. Watching.
The hillside is a mass of shifting shadows under the moonlight. I scan it, searching for the glint of a lens, or the shift ofa body among the trees. Any movement where there shouldn’t be any. But there’s nothing.
I stay out longer than I should, the cold seeping into my bones. It clears my head in a way nothing else can. But the silence isn’t comforting. There’s just uncertainty. The steady, open emptiness of the night.
When I finally step back inside, the warmth of the house feels almost unbearable. I pad into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. Then I slip back into the bedroom, careful not to let the door creak behind me.
The dressing-gown slides off my shoulders and I climb into bed, pulling the covers over me.
Then I stare at the ceiling, still restless.
And I wait for sleep to come.
48
When I open my eyes again, my head is pounding. I’m unsure of what has pulled me from sleep. The room is still and silent, except for the faint rustle of the blackout blinds swaying in the breeze from the open windows. I reach over, expecting to feel Dev beside me, but my hand hits cool sheets. ‘Dev?’ My voice is a whisper, instantly swallowed by the darkness.
My eyes adjust slowly, and I see my husband standing by the window, just a silhouette against the soft glow from outside. He’s peeking through the side of the blind, body tense and still.
‘Dev, what is it?’
He doesn’t turn immediately, just keeps watching whatever is outside that has caught his attention. ‘There are people at the lake,’ he says slowly. ‘There’s floodlights and everything.’
I’m out of bed before I can think straight. I rush to the window and pull the blind aside. My breath catches. Down by the lake, harsh beams of white light cut through the night, illuminating a small group of figures moving along the shore. Some are hunched, focused on the ground, while others stand back, shadows against the floodlights.
I fumble for my phone on the nightstand, fingers trembling. I snap a picture and pinch in closer, trying to make out the uniforms.
‘Police,’ I whisper. ‘And look! An ambulance has just arrived.’
I take another couple of photos, my heart racing, when suddenly a shrill ring crashes through the house, freezing me in place.
The gate bell.
I jump, and beside me, Dev swears under his breath. The sound echoes in the silence, reverberating through the walls.
‘That’s got to be them. Police at the gate!’
‘It’s three in the morning,’ Dev says, his voice low and sharp.
Sarah’s face jumps into my head. The rain, the arguing …
He pulls on some loose pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt, moving quickly. I wrap myself in my dressing-gown, the material a useless shield against the unease that’s starting a slow crawl over my clammy skin. We exchange a glance and I see Dev’s eyes are wide and uncertain. Then we head downstairs together.
The house still feels strange to me. Even though we’ve been here two weeks, I don’t know it well enough yet. In the dark, the immaculate rooms seem cavernous, the corners of the designer furniture too sharp. There’s something slightly clinical about the place, no softness or comfort. We move through the hallway, past the art Dev insisted on hanging, the clean lines. Cold, hard surfaces everywhere I look. I can hear the low hum of the fridge from the kitchen, the only real sound apart from our breathing.
Dev checks the security camera and presses the button to open the gate.
‘Is it the police?’ I hiss, but he doesn’t reply. I feel his hesitation, as if someone he doesn’t want to face is approaching the house.
He opens the door.
Two women stand there, illuminated by the porch light. They’re wearing plain clothes, but something about the way they carry themselves – their curious eyes sweeping across thehallway behind us – makes it clear who they are. One reaches into her jacket, pulls out an ID badge, and flashes it briefly before slipping it away again.
‘We’re sorry to disturb you at this hour.’ Her voice is clipped, businesslike. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Claire Lott, and this is Detective Constable Ruth Parsons. There’s been an incident down at the lake, and we’d like to ask you both a few questions, if that’s all right.’
